


because I prayed this word: I want

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASiB, Awesome Molly Hooper, Bisexual Molly, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Cunnilingus, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, Lesbian Irene Adler, Missing Scene, Molly Hooper character study, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, commission, mollrene, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper lives an average, simple life - and it suits her. But sometimes she wonders if she should want more ... or if she perhaps already does. Then one night, while working late, a beautiful stranger breaks into her lab and asks for a terrifying, exciting favor. Can Molly do it? Should she? And if she does, what will she find out about herself - and what she feels for this stranger - along the way??</p>
            </blockquote>





	because I prayed this word: I want

**Author's Note:**

> A commission from a darling name twin whom I love, Emily couldntpossiblecomment. It took me so long to finish it I can't even believe it, but I finally did it and I am so thankful she commissioned it from me. All credit to Emily for the story concept, which she suggested to me and I fell deeply in love with along the way. 
> 
> Also thanks to Char (elentaari on tumblr) for being a swift and wonderfully encouraging beta!

You came, and I was mad for you

And you cooled my mind that burned with longing…

-Sappho, _Fragments, On Love and Desire_

 

\--

 

The alarm goes off, but Molly’s already awake. She’s always been that way. Why does she still set it? Habit, she supposes. She’s always been that way too.

 

Most days are the same, almost exactly, which she likes. Routine suits her, and not in a drab, monotonous way. She finds it comforting, to leave the house at the same time each day, to pass the same neighbors in on the road, to say _hi_ to Mr. Cook as he unlocks the door to the shop on the corner. Genuinely, it all makes her radiantly happy, to have her life shaped and formed by her hands, exactly as she wants it. She passes a man on the street with his collar turned up high and feels a pang. Maybe not exactly. There are things she’d like to have. The companionship of cats only goes so far as they’re not the best conversationalists. Although they never laugh at her jokes either, so it’s not much different from talking to humans.

 

She sighs, shakes her head. _Focus on what you have, not what’s missing_ , she tells herself. _You may be alone but you’re not lonely_. The platitudes feel rusty and disingenuous in her mind, especially as she enters her favorite coffee shop and sees the tall, dark, and _gorgeous_ barista behind the counter. Her name is Magda and the way she smiles makes Molly’s stomach flip. 

 

“What can I get started for you?”

 

“Hello! I’d like a large, black coffee, please.”

 

“Ah, the usual!”

 

“Oh … I have a usual?”

 

Pouring the coffee, the barista flashes her bright white teeth at Molly over her shoulder.

 

“Love, you order a large, black coffee every morning you come by here.”

 

Molly laughs nervously. The only reason she orders the same thing is to prevent the possibility of stumbling over something more complicated and looking like an idiot in front of Magda.

 

“I guess you’re right.” Molly shrugs as she pays, and Magda smiles warmly at her, leaning forward over the counter to pass Molly her change.

 

“I’ll have it waiting for you tomorrow. Unless you think you’ll change your mind?”

 

“Uh, yes, I mean, uh, no, erm — sorry. I mean, no, I won’t change my mind. Yes, have it waiting for me, that would be, uh, thank you. That would be lovely.”

 

“No problem.” And Magda — with her black, curly hair, pinned up, pouty lips, and high cheek bones — _winks_ at Molly as she pockets her change and waves goodbye, tripping over her feet as she turns. Once recovered, she walks away as quickly as possible, feeling her cheeks burn, cursing herself for having such a predictable type.

 

On the tube she puts on headphones and rests her head back against the window, feeling the rumble of the carriage against the track throughout her whole body. Eyes closed, she sinks into the music, smiling softly, deciding that today will be good. It’s something she tries to do always, at the top of her morning. Decide today will be good, and let it be. It works.

 

Usually.

 

Annoyance twists inside her at the thought of Sherlock showing up in the lab. It’s not like she doesn’t know he manipulates her, all fake smiles and simpering chit chat. She’s not stupid. It’s just that, when he’s _there_ and tall and smells so good, and being nice to her … well, it doesn’t _feel_ fake and despite what she knows to be the truth, what she feels sometimes overwhelms her. Most times. It didn’t matter. She shakes the thought away, turning the music up and letting the beats course through her deliciously, bobbing her head involuntarily. Today will be good.

 

\--

 

“The unsinkable Molly!”

 

“Sir Garreth!” Molly raises her cup in salute to the front desk guard as she passes.

 

“Cold out there, innit? Won’t catch me takin’ the tube in this weather. Cabs all the way from my front door to this one.”

 

She spins, walking backwards to continue talking to Garreth. “Come on, lad, where’s your sense of adventure?”

 

“Waitin’ for me somewhere in the middle of July, I think.”

 

“Tell it ‘hello’ from me when you find it,” She calls over her shoulder once she’s spun back around. Garreth replies with a noncommittal grunt.

 

The lift bings open and displays itself as gloriously empty. She hops on, frantically presses the Door Close button, and, turns her headphones back up. With the door closed, Molly grooves. She can’t dance a step, but she loves it anyway. Back and forth, she slides her feet, rolling her hips. Arms above her head, she spins, relishing in the freedom of being alone. The lift bings on her floor and she immediately stills. A doctor she doesn’t know is waiting to get on and, as they pass, nodding at each other, Molly stifles a giggle.

 

In the lab, she strips off her outer layers and transfers her iPod to the stereo, cranking the volume and dancing over to her desk. Plenty of work today. She sits down to prioritize things and as she puts the name of each deceased on the to-do list, she makes a point to be thankful she’s been granted another day. That’s one thing she loves about her job. Really makes you appreciate how quickly it can all end.

 

“Isn’t that right, Edward?” She mumbles to herself as she preps her first of the day who was hit by a bus. She tries not to chuckle, but Molly can’t help make jokes about death. _I mean,_ I _think they’re funny_.

 

The day clips by, four of the cadavers done by lunch, and the entire afternoon stretching out before her full of dead bodies. She’ll probably have to stay late tonight. Or at least she’ll offer to. She could split the work with someone else if she needed to, but she’d rather let them go home to their families. It’s not like she has anyone waiting for her. Suddenly she feels the softest sadness at the thought. _No one’s waiting for me._ She shakes it off. She likes to be alone, always has. _Everything’s fine._

 

After a seriously satisfying kebab lunch, she dives back into her post-mortems and by the time she looks up, it’s half past seven. The building’s been closed for two hours and she hardly noticed. She sews up the final body and puts it back in its drawer, setting at her desk to finish up the paperwork. Her iPod turned off at least an hour ago, leaving her to scribble notes in the silence. Something creaks at the other end of the room.

 

“Mr. Radcliffe?” Sometimes the janitor wanders in around now to empty the bins, but he usually announces himself. No one else would be in the building this late, except security, and they keep to the main hallways for their walkthroughs. _Must have just been the pipes_ , Molly thinks, and goes back to scribbling. _Tumors present in the thoracic cavity. Cause of death: cancer._

 

Another noise. Not a creak this time, but a soft, _whump_ , almost like a kitten landing on from a high jump.

 

“Oh great, did another cat get in here?”

 

Two months ago a stray had managed to find its way into St. Bart’s. She’d found it trying to paw it’s way into the freezer that held donated hearts. It was a sweet cat, and had immediately taken to Molly, rubbing its head against her face, but had it actually gotten into those hearts they would have had to be binned. She couldn’t risk that again. Perhaps she should talk to custodial about being more careful to shut the doors when they empty trash into the dumpsters out back?

 

Molly pushes away from the desk, mumbling _pss pss pss pss, here kitty kitty_ , as she walks the perimeter of the large room, checking under tables and in corners for the culprit. She reaches the far corner of the room from her desk, where the biomaterial refrigerator is, expecting to find the culprit, but sees nothing. She pulls it out a bit on its wheels, checking behind.

 

“Where are you, sweet kitten?”

 

Then, from across the room, a voice.

 

“The only sweet kitten I see in this room is you.”

 

Molly jumps and squeaks, startled. _Sherlock??_ she thinks immediately. But the voice is too high, although the silhouette she can make out of the person sitting on her desk certainly matches. A high collar, turned up. Short, curly hair.

 

“Please don’t keep me waiting, kitten. It’s _dreadfully_ boring.” The woman stretches her arms above her head casually, as if breaking and entering were a regular part of her routine.

 

“What are you doing? You can’t be in here, this is a restricted-”

 

“Come closer, let me get a proper look at you.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

 _Rude_. Molly fumbles in her lab coat for her mobile, to call security, or, if necessary, emergency services. But it’s not there. Crossing the room cautiously, Molly sees she left it on her desk. Right where this woman is … well, _lounging._ And yes, in fact, she _is_ wearing Sherlock’s coat, laying on her left side, bare legs crossed, on display between the slit of the coat’s open front, head propped up on her elbow, looking for all the world like Cleopatra.

 

“All that’s missing is someone to feed you grapes.” Molly can’t help but joke.

 

The woman shifts to her stomach, gently bobbing her legs behind her.

 

“Got any grapes?”

 

“Do you mind telling me who you are? And why you have my friend’s coat?”

 

“Ooh, do you know the vicar with the bleeding face as well?”

 

Molly was lost. Well. _More_ lost. “Who?”

 

“ _Sherlock_ , kitten. You know him?”

 

“ _You_ know him?”

 

The woman laughs, and it’s … exquisite. The most beautiful sound.

 

“Could you just tell me who you are, please?”

 

“Of course. But first, come closer. I’m not going to bite you, darling.” The woman pauses, lowering her eyelids. “Unless you want me to.”

 

It should be alarming, a statement like that, in a darkened lab, coming from a stranger who’s almost certainly some kind of dangerous. But instead of frightening her, the woman’s words make her blush with pleasure. She’s stunning, the woman on the desk. Dark hair, red lips, iridescent eyes. _Remind you of anyone_? Molly chides herself, but pushes the thought away. While waiting for Molly to approach, the woman looks her up and down and licks her lips. Molly is overwhelmed with the desire to kiss her. She clears her throat.

 

“I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you would get off my desk, let me have my phone, and tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

The woman sits up, perching on the corner of the desk, deliberately spreading the flaps of the coat so that her bare legs are still in view. She has Molly’s phone in her hands and starts casually tossing it up in the air and catching it, like a cricket ball. Molly crosses her arms and tries to look annoyed.

 

“My name is Irene Adler and I’m here because I need your help.”

 

“With?”

 

She catches the phone with a _thwack_ , and snaps her neck toward Molly simultaneously, smiling like a fox in a henhouse.

 

“Faking my death.”

 

Molly uncrosses her arms and clenches her fists. She should be outraged, affronted. She should scoff and tell this woman, this ‘Irene,’ to bugger off because no way any honest, self-respecting forensic pathologist would ever do something like that. But she can’t, because no matter how hard she tries not to think about it, she’s always wondered if she could pull off faking a death. Obviously, it would take a compromise of ethics she never expected to be okay with. But the idea - and this woman - fascinate her endlessly.

 

“And what makes you think I’d falsify medical records? And for a total stranger at that?”

 

“Three reasons.” Irene tosses her phone at her, suddenly. She manages to catch it, clumsily, and to Irene’s credit she doesn’t even smirk. Molly cues up 999 on the call screen when Irene starts to move closer.

 

“One: I hear you have a soft spot for high cheekbones and piercing eyes.” Irene stalks her, catlike, seductive. Molly knows she should be afraid, but Irene is right. She’s flustered by her attraction to this woman, and the danger she presents. She can’t think straight. It’s like when Sherlock is right in front of her, smiling, complimenting her hair, only … better. Because this woman, Irene, doesn’t make her feel inferior. Somehow Molly feels equal, like a peer, not an underling.

 

“Two: Because my target is our shared friend. Don’t you think he deserves a bit of his own medicine?”

 

“You want … you want me to try and trick _Sherlock_? The most observant man on the planet? As if I could!!” Molly laughs. But then Irene is in front of her, reaching out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Molly’s ear. The laugh dies in her throat and Irene’s cool fingers on her cheek make her chest feel tight, like breathing at the top of a mountain.

 

“That’s number three, kitten,” Irene’s index finger skims down over Molly’s cheek and along her jaw line, stopping just under her chin and tipping her face upward. “You want to see if you can.”

 

Molly doesn’t know what to say because … she’s right. Irene’s completely right. _What if I could? What if I was clever enough?_ The idea ramps up the beating of her heart, the prospect of vindication at fooling Sherlock, at the delicious secret she’d have with herself, and with this beautiful, enchanting woman: That she was able to trick the great Sherlock Holmes.

 

Irene’s finger slides down her neck, to the top of her jumper, skimming the collar. Molly suspects that may also be contributing to her raised heart rate. Significantly. Irene steps even closer, leaning in subtly, as if preparing for a kiss.

 

“What do you think, kitten?”

 

“I think,” Molly swallows, thick and dry. “I think I want to kiss you.”

 

“You gorgeous thing.” Irene dips her head closer, smiling. “I knew that already.”

 

Molly can feel Irene’s breath on her mouth.

 

“Will you help me, darling Molly?”

 

She feels like she can’t think and yet Molly knows she’s thinking more clearly than she ever has.

 

“I … yes.”

 

The payoff is immediate. Irene’s mouth descends on hers and everything is soft and slick and even sweeter than she hoped for. When Irene pulls away, Molly can’t quite open her eyes. She stands, face tilted up, trying to surface from beneath an entire ocean of new feelings.

 

“I’ve got your number. You’ll be hearing from me.”

 

When Molly opens her eyes, she’s alone. Unsteadily, she walks the few meters to her desk where she finds a paper with three numbers written on it:

 

_32-24-34_

 

\--

 

Molly takes a cab home, following the tungsten bulbs in the street lights with her eyes as they pass, and tries not to think. About the way Irene’s legs laid gracefully across her desk. About the taste of her lips, her teeth and tongue. About lying on official medical records for a woman she’s barely met. About how small Sherlock makes her feel. And about how she’s never felt taller in her entire life than when Irene looked her in the eye and asked for her help.

 

At home, she flops onto her bed without undressing or taking off her shoes and stares at the ceiling until the sun rises.

 

\--

 

Christmas looms and the entire city turns into a holiday card. Twinkle lights, red and green bunting, and evergreen branches drape over every possible surface, while intermittent snow falls, frosting everything, every structure evoking gingerbread houses.

 

Normally, Molly loves it. Unironic and unembarrassed she pads herself with sparkling Christmas sweaters that people call ‘ugly.’ This year it’s all background noise. Irene contacted her the day after she appeared in the lab with a rough plan and a date - Christmas Eve. She’s going to convince Sherlock that someone he knows died on _Christmas Eve_. She repeats this to herself several times a day. Whether it’s to make it seem less outrageous or to convince herself she can really do it, she’s not sure.

 

Cadavers come into the lab, cadavers go out. She keeps her eyes open for late thirties, female, porcelain skin, dark hair. When she’s alone in the lab, Molly measures them. So far, she has two prospects, marked with an inconspicuous ‘ _Hold’_ on their paperwork. They sit in refrigerated drawers and no one seems to notice, no one says a thing, but Molly feels like they’re under a spotlight. Drawer 12 and Drawer 57, placards encircled with neon lights, blinking and broadcasting her immoral, illegal activity throughout all of Britain.

 

Her nails are bitten to the bone, yet she chews them still and the skin beneath, waiting to hear from Irene. Molly tells herself she’s desperate for her to text because she’s worried about the plan. Their plan. It has nothing to do with her plush red lips, or the way she tasted, or the gravelly sound of her voice in its lower registers.

 

During lunch on December 22, she hears her phone buzzing somewhere at the bottom of her bag, and she nearly knocks over her bottle of water and uneaten sandwich to the ground in her frantic scrambling to find it. Her shoulders sagging in disappointment when she sees it’s just a text from John inviting her to a get together at 221B tomorrow night. Great. Now she can look Sherlock in his beautiful face at a _party_ right before she crushes him.

 

She’s still absentmindedly holding the phone, worrying her chapped bottom lip with her teeth and contemplating the party, when it rings again. _Unlisted_.

 

“Erm … hello?”

 

“Afternoon, kitten.”

 

At the sound of Irene’s voice, Molly lets out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Why is she so relieved? And then she realizes: She _missed_ Irene. As if they were close. As if they knew each other at all.

 

“Everything’s ready for tomorrow. Go with option B, the one who’s face was all bashed in.”

 

“And you’re sure he’ll be able to ID you from … not your face?”

 

Irene laughs, like a bell tinkling, but not unkind.

 

“He’d better. I’ll notify him at around 7:30 tomorrow, so they’ll probably call you in shortly thereafter. It’s important you have everything set up to look like I’ve just come in, alright?”

 

“Yes. Fine. No problem.”

 

“Text me with an update once he’s viewed the body. That’s all for now.”

 

Molly didn’t want to hang up, didn’t know when she’d hear Irene’s voice again, which was such a torturous thought it made her light headed.

 

“I-Irene?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I mean, it’s nothing, only that, erm, John’s just - do you know who John is? Anyway, you must, if you know who Sherlock is, and so, that is to say-”

 

Irene cuts through her hemming and hawing, firm but not stern. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

 

It buoys her, the way Irene makes her feel as if what she has to say is important, simply because Molly is the one saying it.

 

“John’s just invited me to Christmas drinks at their flat tomorrow night.”

 

Silence.

 

“And?”

 

“Well it’s just that I … I don’t know how I can … Look, it’s hard enough for me to be around Sherlock even when I’m not about to trick him into believing a living, breathing person is dead on slab. He turns me into a mouse. I lose my head. It’s like … it’s like I’m not me.”

 

More silence. Molly closes her eyes and curses herself for sharing so much. This woman doesn’t care in the slightest how Sherlock makes Molly feel, how she has an idiotic crush on him. Why did she feel so compelled to dump all this on her? Now she surely won’t ever hear from Irene again after this. But then, almost a whisper, full of sincerity and … maybe even a hint of empathy.

 

“Molly. I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say. Sherlock Holmes is not a god and he’s not a superhero. He’s just a man, and a broken one at that. He tries very hard to do big good things but often fails at the small ones. But - and listen to me now - _he’s not better than you_. I want you to remember that, the next time he says or does something that makes you feel insignificant. And then I want you to give him hell.”

 

There are tears in Molly’s eyes. How does Irene know so much? And more to the point, why should she care? Molly doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter because Irene makes her feel real, solid. Like she has two feet firmly on the ground and they can carry her anywhere she might want to go. She chews her lip, trying to stop the tears from spilling out, as she whispers a soft _thank you_ into the phone.

 

“Oh and one more thing, kitten.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Stop biting at your bottom lip, it’s already chapped enough.”

 

The connection dies and Molly jerks her head all around the cafeteria. Could she … could she be here? Heels click in ten different directions, and for a moment Molly thinks she hears Irene’s bell-like laughter somewhere. Then it’s gone. She digs some lip balm out of her bag and notices as she tries to put it on that she can’t stop smiling.

 

\--

 

Back at the lab, Molly writes up the false paperwork, matching the number on the file to Drawer 57, filing it all away and then heading home to get ready for the Christmas party.

 

She knows the dress she picked out is too much for Christmas drinks at a friend's walk-up flat but she doesn’t care. The conversation with Irene is burning in her veins, warming her from the inside like downing a hot glass of sherry too quickly. She feels stronger, more capable. If she feels good in this dress, she's going to wear it, period.

 

Two hours later, made-up, coiffed, and squeezed into the little black dress, she gathers up her presents for everyone who John told her would be at the party, silently annoyed with herself that Sherlock's is packaged so expertly compared to the others. She'd bought the leather pocket supply case in July, immediately after the thought occured. It was engraved with his initials. The whole affair cost her two hundred pounds and now just the thought of it made her nauseated.

 

 _What have I been_ doing? She wondered. Sherlock's probably in love with John and, at the very least, he's not interested Molly in the slightest. Enough. She'll walk in there, friends with everyone in that room, and nothing else. Picturing it, she smiles. It sounds nice.

 

\--

 

Everything goes wrong. Owing partly to the nerves that always take her over when she's going to see Sherlock. The warm strength she'd felt in her flat drains out of her during the cab ride to 221B.

 

At the party when she takes her coat off everyone has to make a comment on her dress, then not one of them laughs at her joke, and then _Sherlock_. Bloody Sherlock Holmes has to make a fool out of her for no reason other than the fact that she bought him a nice gift and she can't even be angry - only sad.

 

She hears Irene's voice in her head in the silence after Sherlock's torn her to pieces, _give him hell_ , and she does her best. It's not exactly hell, but at least she sticks up for herself, tells him how awful he always, _always_ is. Amazingly, Sherlock manages to look like a kicked puppy, and it makes her want to actually kick him. He kisses her on the cheek and she’d like to be delighted but … there’s nothing.

 

Then his phone moans, flustering her beyond belief because _it’s Irene_. She's certain of it. Sherlock disappears shortly after, and Molly gulps her wine. It's coming. Sherlock will come out and tell Lestrade they have to go to the morgue, and Molly will volunteer to help, and they'll believe her when she says it's fine because she has nothing else to do on Christmas Eve because ... it's true. But it doesn't matter because she's about to pull one over on Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective. She wipes at her cheek where he kissed her.

 

\--

 

"You didn't need to come in, Molly."

 

"That's okay, everyone else was busy with ... Christmas. The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."

 

Molly's heart hammers against her rib cage as she pulls the sheet down.

 

 _This is horrible, how can I do this to someone?? Anyway, it's not going to work, he knows, he knows, he'll have me arrested, it's not going to work,_ her inner voice screams inside of her.

 

She convinces her face to arrange itself in a normal amount of nervousness as Sherlock looks the fake Irene's body over. Almost immediately he nods, leaving the room wordlessly. Once Mycroft leaves, her stomach clenches and heaves and she has to run to the rubbish bin before she gets sick all over the body.

 

Both elated and horrified, she pulls the sheet back over the anonymous woman's face. _What have I done?_ and _I’ve done it_! coincide uncomfortably in her head. She barely registers what she's doing as she wheels the body back to the drawer, switches all the paperwork back to _Jane Doe_ , in case her supervisors ever dig deep enough. In the incinerator, she burns all the false paperwork, the toe tag, and pulls out the paper with the tree numbers in Irene's spidery script. A full thirty seconds later she finally puts it back in her pocket.

 

Numbly, she walks the entire way home from St. Bart's, thinking about nothing, thinking about everything. At one street corner she stops and texts Irene: _All clear_. Sleet starts to fall from the sky, then. Light, at first, than heavy, like small daggers. Each minute, each step she takes with Irene not answering her she feels less and less, until the sharp jabs from the sleet on top of her head don't register at all. 

 

\--

 

In her dark flat she strips the wet clothes off - not because they’re particularly bothering her, but because she knows that’s what you’re supposed to do when you come in drenched from the rain - and bundles up in a fluffy robe. Still without turning the lights on, she walks through the rooms to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine. The bottle tinks several times against the rim of the cup and she realize she’s shaking. It could be from the cold, but more like it’s from all the adrenaline finally leaving her system. Suddenly, she’s lightheaded. Gripping the edge of the counter and closing her eyes, she breathes deep, trying to clear her mind, but all she can see is “Irene” on the slab, Sherlock’s blank face, the paperwork burning.

 

“Did that really just happen?” She mutters.

 

“Yes, and you were absolutely brilliant,” Irene’s voice, low and smokey, behind her. Somewhere in the direction of the living room. Molly’s lightheaded again, but in the most brilliant way. All the terrible things leave her instantly, the idea of Irene’s presence floating down gently and covering her like snowfall. She smiles but doesn’t turn.

 

“How would you know? Unless you were hiding in the duct work?”

 

“Well it worked, didn’t it?”

 

Molly sees Sherlock’s face again and feels a little sad.

 

“Did it?”

 

She she can hear Irene stand and move toward her.

 

“He’ll be fine.”

 

Molly’s not sure. The pride she feels at her cleverness is tamped down at the thought that Sherlock was out there, somewhere, mourning a dead woman who’s standing right behind her. It would be nice if she didn’t care about his feelings, since he doesn’t seem to care about hers. But she does. Irene’s fingers pull Molly’s wet hair from her shoulders and sweeps it to the side, her mouth close enough to Molly’s ear that Irene’s breath makes her skin erupt in goosebumps.

 

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

 

A beat.

 

“I know.”

 

Her mouth on Molly’s neck is even more exquisite than on her lips. Without realizing it, Molly’s grip on her glass slackens and she feels it slipping, but then there’s Irene’s, taking it softly from her and setting it on the counter.

 

Molly turns, tentatively wrapping her arms around Irene’s waist, who purrs into the crook of her neck at the contact. She tugs, gentle but insistent, at Molly’s wet locks, tipping her head back, so she can drag her tongue up and down her throat. It’s magnificent. She says so and Irene trills a laugh.

 

“Where’s your bedroom?”

 

Molly’s stomach flips over and back as she brings Irene into her room, where Irene switches on the small bedside lamp before sitting on the edge of the bed. She pulls Molly closer, by the belt of her robe, and looks up, beaming.

 

“Brilliant, beautiful Molly.”

 

It makes Molly look down, shyly, and she uses the moment to take in Irene’s full appearance. Head to toe in black, including gloves, and the reddest lipstick Molly has ever seen. She looks like a greek goddess, chiseled from stone, yet somehow still soft and delicate. She’s so lovely Molly aches, reaching up to touch Irene’s cheeks, eyelids, neck, feather soft.

 

“You know …”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“This is the first time I’ve seen you fully clothed.”

 

Irene laughs again, ringing out in the silent flat. Molly wishes she could record it, play it as her text alert so she’d never forget the way it made her stomach feel like it’s full of warm honey. And then she’s falling forward, pulled down by Irene’s sharp yank on the belt of her robe, and they’re both laughing. Irene rolls them so Molly is beneath her, wet hair splayed all around her head, and slowly starts to untie Molly’s belt.

 

“Is this alright?” She breathes.

 

“Please,” Is the only thing Molly can think to say, which Irene answers with a soft moan.

 

Molly’s robe falls away and the cold air of the flat makes her skin tighten and bump, her nipples hardening immediately to a point. Irene doesn’t move, she just looks. And looks and looks, like Molly’s bare skin is a feast and she can’t decide what to take a bite of first. When it’s been just a moment too long for Molly to bear, she reaches again to cup Irene’s face. Her eyes close as she leans into Molly’s hand.

 

It must have been all the encouragement Irene needed because Irene descends on Molly and feasts, teasing her already hard nipples to almost painful peaks, nibbing at the thin, sensitive flesh over her ribcage as Molly’s breath heaves deep in her belly. And then, without removing even one piece of her own clothing, even one glove, she dips her head between Molly’s legs and covers Molly’s lips with her mouth, kissing her more deeply there than Molly’s ever been kissed anywhere. If she’d been asked, Molly would have guessed that Irene would be the master of the tease, but apparently she would have been wrong. Irene tastes and licks at her as if nothing has ever been sweeter, pushing Molly closer and closer at almost an alarming speed. She can’t stop her hands from slipping into Irene’s perfectly pinned curls, mussing them as her fingers clench and unclench reflexively.

 

Irene pulls back slightly, blowing a soft, warm breath over Molly’s slit, letting her catch her breath. Molly is silently grateful as she gulps air and tries to slow the rapid pounding in her chest and head. When Irene starts kissing her thighs right near her sex, as well as her lips and clit, softly, sweetly, Molly lets out a long, high whine.

 

“Are you ready to come for me, kitten?”

 

It rips a groan through Molly as she fists her fingers in Irene’s hair. Irene opens her mouth and fully encompasses Molly’s clit, gently suckling her there, relentlessly, until Molly’s orgasm takes her over, rolling like waves, building and bursting like the bright colors behind her eyes. She moans, low and deep, the entire time and Irene doesn’t pull back until dry sobs choke from Molly’s throat.

 

Irene slips up the bed and lays next to Molly, holding her against her chest while he breathing slows and the sweat dries. Once she’s calm, Irene smooths a hand over Molly’s hair, pushing it off of her forehead.

 

“I have to go.”

 

“I know.”

 

Irene smiles like she’s never seen something like Molly before, and it fills Molly head to toe with that honey feeling. She snuggles closer and Irene tightens her arms around her.

  
“Will I see you again?” Molly asks, eyes closed.

 

“Yes, if that’s what you want. Here and there.”

 

“Good.” Molly can’t stifle the massive yawn that wells up in her throat. Somehow she already feels half asleep. “I’d have missed you otherwise.”

 

She can feel Irene’s smile against her hair.

 

“Shhh,” Irene breathes. “Sleep now.”

 

\--

 

Alone, Molly wakes at the sun, before the alarm goes off, and she smiles without opening her eyes.

 

\--

 

Life is the same, but somehow better. Molly flirts with the barista in the mornings, works, but starts leaving the lab earlier. She goes out with friends, meets people. And helps Sherlock out when it suits her.

 

Then, three months later. John and Sherlock are testing some blood in the lab and she hears John mention _Irene_. She stills, listens as hard as she can, and hears Sherlock tell John whatever he said doesn’t matter, because _she’s dead_.

 

She drops three test tubes on the ground, running from the lab and locking herself in the loo, trying not to hyperventilate.

 

\--

 

It’s not like Irene was a constant in Molly’s life, or ever would be. But knowing someone was out there that thought of her as something special made everything easier, better, more … possible.

 

She decides to take a cab home, too stunned and saddened to walk to the tube station. She gets in without paying attention and doesn’t notice the woman who was already in the cab until her gloved hand covers Molly’s knee.

 

“Afternoon, kitten.”

 

Molly’s heart drops out of her body entirely as she takes Irene’s hand without looking up.

 

“I heard you died.”

 

Laughter like a bell. “I’m known to be indestructible.”

 

“Don’t do that to me.”

 

“Never.”

 

\--

 

One day, Sherlock Holmes turns up in Molly’s lab asks for help faking his own death. He has all kinds of suggestions, but Molly shuts him down. She succinctly explains how it can be done, and agrees to help. He looks at her like she’s something new.

 

“I may have underestimated you, Molly Hooper.”

 

Molly smiles.

 

“Yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr! Teapotsubtext.tumblr.com


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